Light on the Third Floor
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: Edward's determined to give the Colonel a piece of his mind after a long, idiotic mission... but sometimes it doesn't work out that way. Who knew that Roy Mustang was a human being?


_Light on the Third Floor_

By Kay

Disclaimer: FMA. Not mine. The agony.

Author's Notes: I think I overdid this fic a lot… it's highly OOC, not to mention fairly pointless. I just like the idea of Ed catching Roy when his guard's completely down (or as down as it gets). Or maybe I just like describing sleeping Roy.

Or maybe I'm a dork. Yup.

Enjoy.

* * *

The building is nearly empty when Edward Elric starts stomping down the hallway.

The stretches of hollow corridors in Central's Headquarters are tiled, and his boots clip loudly against the floor as he walks—each sound is deafening in the stillness. A part of Edward wants to slow down and stride carefully, but it struggles and is defeated by the slow burn of anger curled in his stomach. There is no one here to be troubled by his racket, anyway, save for a few left over soldiers who are already putting on their coats to head home.

But he knows there is still one left. The light in the third floor window, fourth in the front row, is burning brightly.

The late hour meant an extra ten minutes to get by the front security guards—they want identification beyond his silver watch, and it takes some explaining (and a few tantrums) before they let him enter. It is unusual for him to be here this late in the day; the sun is already an orange glimmer darkening on the bottom of the horizon. Most of the personnel has already gone home for the day. He knows the offices will be empty.

His body aches. It is sore from the train ride, still crying out for sleep on a warm mattress, but he ignores it. There is another score to settle. First, he will deal with the shit of a Colonel. Then he will obey the pleas of his body.

Afterward, he can let go of the searing fury. Then, he will sleep.

The words have been building in his brain all day while he traveled back—in the bumpy ride of the carriage across badly cobbled stones, as the train sped jerkily toward Central, and as he walked to the building in stiff, frustrated steps—they were working into coherent sentences, comprehensible phrases and insults. They are on the tip of his tongue as he passes the lonely, stark outlines of the desks in Mustang's outer-office. He pauses only momentarily to see their shadowed forms, understanding that the rest of the staff, even Hawkeye, has already left for the evening. There is no one to ask permission to enter—even then, his gloved fist raises to knock abruptly before he hesitates and, narrowing his eyes, lowers it.

And then he pushes open Mustang's door, mouth opening to deliver the first scathing barb.

But it never comes.

Edward always knows what to expect. He may not always think things through, but generally he lives his life by plans—where his feet will take him next could determine everything. So he knew what he'd see when he pushed open the door.

Roy Mustang, glancing up and smirking that insufferable smile at him, that smug and knowing grin that made his blood boil. Probably slacking on the paperwork or getting ready for a big date—maybe already putting on his overcoat.

Or perhaps he would be irritated. Yes, because Fullmetal was supposed to report earlier today, but couldn't because he'd been traveling. Because he was working or ready to leave, and now had been interrupted, and he would glare at Edward with the deep, black-colored tablets of his eyes, a mass of tar and oil burning in annoyance but saying little else.

_'It's about time, Fullmetal,'_ he would say. _'Did they loose you between the seats on the train?'_

That is what Edward is expecting.

But is not what he gets.

For a while, he stands there uncertainly, his mouth still open to deliver a now-faded insult. There is a confused sort of haze settling over his features, wrinkling his brow and making him purse his lips studiously as he steps inside the office and carefully closes the door behind him.

It is warm and dimly lit. The yellow glow of the lamp on the Colonel's desk paints the wallpaper a cream sort of color, ivory and yolk shifting against the growing shadows in the corner. The blinds are uncharacteristically half-open; the light that peeks through was the same one he'd seen beforehand outside. It feels a little strange to be looking at it.

Edward isn't entirely sure what to do.

Roy Mustang is sleeping.

His first impulse is to run over and shake his shoulder, demanding him to wake up and listen to his report and, afterward, angry complaints. But this is a sight he's never seen before—the frustration that he'd been focusing on trickles through his fingers numbly, leaving him with a dazed sense of bewilderment and surprise.

He's never seen this before. It is unexpected. Unreal.

The man's dark head of hair shines a bit in the lamplight, cradled in his arms as he slumbers on the surface of his desk. The papers crunch a bit under his cheek—Edward can see a few important documents crease as he shifts, letting out a gentle sigh. He's slumped over his work, still seated in his black chair, the overcoat of his uniform draped messily over the back of it. His gloves, unseen, leave behind surprisingly flesh-colored fingers that curl around his head like a pillow. Oval-shaped nails are raggedly chewed a little on the left hand, and the slightly bony set of wrists is exposed by the rumpled cuffs of his dress shirt. There's a slight peek of a curving, slender neck under his loosened collar—it makes Edward uncomfortable for some reason to see it, and he adverts his eyes downward a bit, embarrassed.

Mustang's eyelashes are black and stark, settled on pale white skin. They twitch every so often.

Edward swallows. "H-hey... um... Colonel?"

There is no answer, save for a brief frown that immediately settles back into a peaceful expression. Roy's breathing is slow and even, almost deathly silent, to the point where Edward almost has to strain to hear it.

He takes a step forward; hesitates and stops. Licks his lips uncertainly. This isn't what he expected at all to face. "Hey... stupid Colonel. Stop sleeping on the job."

There is no answer. He didn't really expect one, but part of him had hoped that it would be a stupid joke—that the Colonel's head would raise, eyes slipping open into a lazy glare, and he'd drawl something like, _'I assure you, Fullmetal, I take my duty much more seriously than a short child like you does.'_ Which wasn't something he'd said before, but Edward wouldn't put it past him to say it. Not really.

When there is no reaction—Roy's eyelids flinch again, but it is a few moments after his words—he considers what to do now.

_'Well, wake him up. Tell him what a bastard he's been lately. That's what you were going to do, remember?'_

Edward hesitates again, but this time his renewed purpose (fueled by both the memory of his anger, and the awkward feeling lingering behind that both irritated and baffled him) propelled him forward. He carefully went forward until standing before the desk, close enough to hear the steady rush of breath rustle the papers, and near enough to see the slight lines in Mustang's forehead that were drawn up in exhaustion. A little too close. He felt his face flush unexpectedly.

"Damn it, Mustang—"

"Nngh," the man mumbled, drawing up his arms tighter. He buried his face further into the wrinkled white fabric of his sleeves. "Nhun."

Edward feels the first flash of impatience. Grumbling, he reaches out to nudge the man. "Hey—hey, Colonel—"

His fingertips touch the heat of his shoulder. "M' so tired, Maes," says Roy sleepily.

He freezes.

The lamplight is failing against the oncoming darkness outside—it leaks into the silent room, pouring over the carpet like a puddle of gray. Edward stands there, heart in his throat, fingers brushing the worn cloth of Roy's uniform, and tries not to breathe.

After a moment of soft, blurry sounds, Roy falls back into his pattern of slumber. As soon as the steady inhales and exhales begin, the boy next to him rips his hand away almost violently, staring at the sleeping man at his desk. His hand clenches automatically at his side.

He never called Lt. Hughes by his first name... but he had known it.

Swallowing, he steps back a little. Stares down at the Colonel with something sharp—fierce, like anger, and strong like pity, but not quite either in any form or fashion. There is nothing to prepare him for this, so instead he sighs, letting the last of his anger leak out of his tense form.

"Stop sending me on stupid, pointless missions, bastard," he whispers quietly to Roy. "Okay?"

With that, he settles on the sofa in the office, sinking down into the cushions with another weary sigh. Somewhere else in the corridor nearby, a door shuts. Footsteps echo and fade away, leaving them completely alone in the building. His body rejoices in the comfort of something soft to sit upon.

He stares at the form of the man sleeping, studying it thoughtfully in the growing darkness. There is something like content on that face. He's never seen it before.

And although he knows he needs to get back to the hotel—Al will worry, is probably fretting in the room right now, despite knowing where he went—and his body is still demanding bed and hot water, a good long rest for aching bones and muscle...

Despite of all of this, Edward stays for just a moment longer. Roy says nothing else in his sleep, just little murmurs every so often that mean absolutely nothing. His face slackens and relaxes further, however; the lines smooth out as time passes.

He could not have been prepared for this, he tells himself tiredly. It wasn't something he thought anyone had seen for a long time. Private. Guarded. Secret. It wasn't his place to hold the vigil to this side of the man he respected and disliked at the same time.

But he can't make himself move.

Tomorrow, Edward tells himself. Tomorrow he will explain and rant and scream at the Colonel. Tomorrow there will be several things to say and do. Questions to answer. A man sitting at that same desk that he will hate.

Tonight, he watches a stranger sleeping for a bit longer. Before he leaves, he gently drapes the blue-uniform coat on the chair over the dark-haired man's shoulders, shuts off the lamplight, and slips quietly out the door.

In the darkness, the slight curve of a smile crosses Roy's features, and he dreams.

_The End_


End file.
